


I stand a hundred feet, but I fall when I'm around you

by CarmenOnMonday



Series: Mercy 'verse [3]
Category: Men's Football RPF
Genre: Developing Friendships, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Enemies to Friends, Eric's oblivious, Gen, Homesickness, Multi, Slow Build
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-21
Updated: 2019-01-21
Packaged: 2019-10-14 02:15:36
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,813
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17499680
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CarmenOnMonday/pseuds/CarmenOnMonday
Summary: “We’re all looking for something, you know. You’re not the only one lost.”Eric's breath catches. He’s not one to romanticize life, to use big words and complicated metaphors. But maybe that’s what’s wrong with him. He’s lost somewhere in-between.___Eric Dier's definition of home.





	I stand a hundred feet, but I fall when I'm around you

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: not real at all. 
> 
> Still not a native, sorry.

_(April ’16)_

“If you could teleport anywhere in the world, where would you go?” Dele asks, in barely more than a whisper for once.

He tends to ask this kind of questions from time to time.

Eric’s mind automatically escapes to Portugal landscapes and to the salty smell of air carried from the sea. There’s only one way he would answer this question in the past, so he thinks: home, I would go home. But then the thought is gone, just like that, because the subtle warmth of the April London’s sun on his face isn’t to be ignored, the fresh grass underneath him a comforting remembrance of every single game he played, the person next to him familiar, effortlessly filling the empty space next to him. Eric opens his eyes slightly to squint at his companion. Dele lies next to him completely still and quiet, so different then he was in training just minutes ago, but it’s not a disturbing sight; every version of him is just another addition to a person Eric now considers his best friend.

And Eric realises: this is not so bad. 

_Right here_ , he thinks. _I’d stay right here._

Dele interprets his silence differently. “Stupid question,” he chuckles. “You’d go to Portugal, obviously. Boring.”

Eric doesn’t bother to correct him.

 

* * *

 

_(July ‘15)_

He doesn’t get this desperate often because he’s mostly okay when he’s playing. It’s just that it’s Sunday, the third free day in a row after a first week of their intense preseason, and he just can’t bear to sit around without a purpose anymore. 

He’s an outdoorsy person, so these last few days, he tried jogging (coaches would give him the proper scolding if they knew he defied their ban on physical exertion), tried walking his dogs, wandering around the woods for a long time, but it’s too gloomy in London now, so cold and grey and humid that being outside isn’t exactly a pleasurable experience. He tried to have a bit of a tourist attitude, thought about exploring the city, but its fast tempo and people density made his skin crawl. He called everyone there was to call with, ugh, _mixed_ results. He invited Jan and Mousa over, cooked them a dinner and played with them on the Play Station after, and it took his mind of the uncomfortable topics for the evening, but now he’s once again tired of the dull, colourless days he’s living, and that’s it, that’s what pushes him to decide: fuck it.

He gets into the car and sets the GPS to guide him to Cheltenham. Driving takes him a bit over two hours, but he has time, and it’s a nice change, finally having a goal he’s heading towards, even though he doesn’t know what kind of comfort he expects he’ll get there. 

He drives to the first house he lived in, but it doesn’t mean he drives home. 

When he arrives in front of the building he remembers only from a few occasions he’s been here as an adult, he knocks at the door impatiently. It was a good idea, coming here, focusing on something concrete, he can already tell. That’s the best way to deal with his wandering mind.

The door opens revealing Steph’s surprised face.

“Eric…?” She doesn’t finish, but he knows what she asks about.

 _What are you doing here?_ What, indeed?

“Where’s my favourite niece?” he booms, theatrically.

She rolls her eyes. “The only niece, you mean. Playing in the living room.”

He doesn’t wait for more, he just walks past her, leaves the coat on the hanger and goes searching for the baby. 

Lily, eight months old, lies on the mat in the centre of the living room and plays happily with her colourful mascots. She babbles in a long passages, no words recognizable yet, but her joyful squeals immediately fill the empty hole Eric carried in himself these past days. He grins at her, ready to assume the role of her favourite uncle.

“Princesa!” He lies down next her, unbashful, and smiles at her big, curious eyes staring at him with interest. “Você sentiu minha falta? Eu estava com tanta saudades.” _Did you miss me? I missed you so much._

He takes her into his arms and lies her down on his chest. A disgruntled expression paints her cute little face; he can’t help but laugh at her.

“Ahhh, meu anjo…” _Oh, my little angel._

Cuddling with her is even better than playing with his dogs (not that he would ever tell them that). She’s a smart, happy baby, visibly curious about the world. Her little fingers reach his face, and she keeps exploring his features – she tugs at his ears and then almost pushes her thumb into his eye, but he just laughs – she’s such a sunshine, with a power to light the whole world up.

Because for him, the world isn’t some undefined enormous notion; it’s what he surrounds himself with. Surrounding himself with his family has always between the best way to remain grounded.

“You know she doesn’t understand you, right?” Steph asks from the door, unimpressed.

“And whose fault is that?” he shots back, faux-or-maybe-truly offended.

She rolls her eyes. “She’s not Portuguese, Eric. There’s no reason to confuse her, let’s just focus on teaching her English.”

Steph’s right, he knows, and it’s her call to make, but he focuses on Lily instead and tells her: “Deixa disso, vou te ensinar português.” _Don’t worry, I’ll teach you everything._

“Right. Good luck,” Stephanie states after a long sigh. “I’ll leave you to it. Come find me upstairs when you want to talk.” She leaves the room. 

The thing is, they don’t talk often. It’s a recent development, the fact that he comes to her at all, forced by his move to England and Lily’s birth. Steph is his oldest sister, the one he never really trusted not to look down at him. He’s okay with offering his comfort to the youngsters, and Daisy worked hard to make him reach out to her in need, she’s not judgemental of him at all, but Steph… She’s a good person, and he loves her dearly, but she’d always kept her distance, always held the authority that comes from being by far the oldest, and they’d never build a honest, meaningful relationship.

He didn’t even come here to talk to her, he just strived for some familiarity, even a smallest shred of it. Just to forget about the undefined longing that fills his bones. 

Lily is the best distraction he could hope for, and she’s a perfect listener; he can let himself ramble to her in Portuguese and not feel weird about it at all. Maybe he needed that too, the chance to reconnect with this older version of himself, and he doesn’t talk in Portuguese with any other members of his family; it’s just not a thing they do, even though they would understand each other without any problem, it wouldn’t feel right. 

Because in Portugal, they worked hard not to forget their English identity.

And now, in England, Eric can’t help but fear that he’ll lose a grasp of the culture which has actually shaped him.

Maybe he should talk to Steph; in terms of leaving Portugal behind and finding a new normal in an old environment, she’s an expert. It’s clear now that he’s quite the opposite, that he struggles with adjusting every time he travels back and forth, still, despite the time he spent on loan in Everton and the months with Spurs. He doesn’t want to admit it, but he’s just homesick for something he can’t even describe, can’t even name; now, not long after the summer he spent in Lisbon and on his first days off from the trainings, more than ever. He’s torn in half: in Portugal, his legs are ready to run, defend, and score for England only; in England, his heart beats to the happy, energetic rhythm of Portuguese songs, somehow trapped by the invincible English gloom.

He tickles Lily playfully and contentedly watches her giggle. That’s enough for the next few minutes. Serious talks can wait. 

 

 

“Okay, out with it. What’s with the brooding?” Steph asks when they sit down to the dinner. It’s still just the three of them, Stephanie’s husband Mark works the afternoons in the shop.

Eric doesn’t like her tone. At this point, he’s not sure whether she actually sounds condescending, or if it’s just what his brain makes him hear because that’s what he expects from her. He just shrugs. He already feels better, all thanks to Lily.

“Is it somehow connected to the fact that you fought with Maria?”

He groans. 

“Fucking Daisy.”

“Language!”

_“Caralho, Daisy.“_

“Eric.” 

He smiles sarcastically. “What? Lily doesn’t understand me, right?” 

“Now he agrees, of course.” Steph shakes her head disgruntled. “No swearing in front of my baby, in any language. Anyway, Maria. Are you crazy? You tried to persuade her to leave everything she has behind and move here just to be your wag?”

It sounds awful when Steph says it like that. He can feel the embarrassment he didn’t want to address spread in his body. 

“…I didn’t mean to.”

“But you still asked her this, and from what I heard, you were quite persistent.”

He was. The fight that followed wasn’t pretty. He lowers his gaze and stares at the steak Steph’s prepared, not saying a word. 

“I never thought you would be the one to want to keep his women chained to yourself. Doesn’t sound like you at all. What’s up?”

And that’s why he doesn’t talk to her; most of the time, he’s sure he has his life together, he’s the responsible one, he’s able to get by and even help out others from time to time, but here, facing her justified comments he can’t just dismiss, he feels uncomfortable - physically too big to be considered a kid, mentally too inadequate to be a real adult. After all, he’s just twenty one; Steph is seven years older and all the more wiser. 

“I just miss her,” he stutters awkwardly.

It doesn’t feel like the whole truth, but there’s nothing else he can say that would explain this awfully misguided attempt at reaching out for the remains of his old life.

And he does painfully miss Maria because everything about her is so familiar, so safe – the smile bright and sunny and comforting, the voice low and calming, the words spoken by her always meaningful and honest. Missing her and missing his old put together life might be the same thing.

“It’s not my area of expertise, long-distance relationships, but you said yourself that you love how engaged in her studies she is, you love her independence, so why would you-“

“I do. Just.” He realizes he doesn’t have any explanation. “Okay, I don’t know what’s wrong with me. I’m an arsehole.”

Steph doesn’t comment on that, but it’s clear that she wanted him to admit that.

“Missing her isn’t wrong, that’s a good thing actually, means you care, but you can’t force her to-“

“I know.” He really does. He doesn’t need any advice on his love life. Talking about it with Steph is a bitter pill to swallow.

“No, listen, you need to be an adult-“ She doesn’t want to stop.

“I know, God, I’ll apologise. Forget about it. I just wanted to see Lily, she grows so fast.”

“Eric.” It sounds like a warning, but he doesn’t relent. It’s not the situation with Maria that’s the source of his mood, it’s just one of the consequences, even the least aware of his inner emotional life boy he is knows that. 

There’s just no way to describe the restlessness that eats him alive whenever he’s on his own, so it needs to stay hidden for now, and even though his love life seems like a perfect red herring, he’d rather not discuss it with Steph. Or with anyone else, for that matter, but he can already feel Daisy’s rage that will fall upon him next time they Skype.

But in the end, football will get him through the day, and that’s enough. 

“I just need to get used to being back here.”

Steph’s features soften.

“It’s not easy for you all, I know. Always out in the world, with no place to settle, it’s-“

“No, I’m not complaining. Portugal wasn’t something that fucked us up.”

She looks ready to disagree. 

“It was easier for me to decide where my home is because when we left, I was already a teenager, but you... I really do believe you just need some more time to adjust. Maybe find a place in your life for something more than just football. And Maria finishes her studies in two years, that’s not-“

“Cut it out. Seriously.” Talking about it all makes him feel too raw.

She gives him another concerned look he only tolerates from his mother.

“You know you’re always welcome to visit Lily, right?”

He knows what she means and appreciates her effort. 

It does make him feel a little bit better.

 

* * *

 

The preseason continues with even more exhausting trainings and it gets easier to focus, to put his mind on the next day only. Footballers don’t have much time to spare, so his thoughts stay around the trainings and media stuff and friendlies, and even if the underlying unease is still there, Eric just decides to ignore it. 

Being at the club isn’t a hardship – at this point, he feels comfortable there, it’s no longer new and terrifying, he doesn’t feel desperate to fit into its Englishness anymore. He managed to connect with most of the lads last season, so he has a good relationship with them, and on top of that, he has a smaller group of friends he spends most of his time with. Funnily enough, it’s mostly the foreigners, with the Belgium trio at its core; he feels more comfortable in their presence, so he sticks with them. From what he notices, he’s not the only one feeling a bit homesick at the beginning of the season, they get it. It allows him to focus on training, on being professional, without having to go out of his way to hide his recent grumpiness. 

He doesn’t think about how, at the end of the day, they get to come back to their wives and kids, and he comes back to his empty, unwelcoming house, to short Skype sessions and phone calls cut short. He doesn’t think about it at all. 

It’s always worse after the spare days. Last season, he kept going back to Portugal every time he could squeeze the trip in. Now, when the new reality settled, he’s not able to force himself to go; it would break him, having to leave it all behind times and times again, both Portugal and England. It’s just because it’s still August, just the harsh beginning, he tells himself. 

His relationship with Maria struggles, even though he keeps apologising to her over and over again, because he is, somewhere in the back of his mind, constantly tired and homesick and feels like he’s floating aimlessly whenever he’s not at the club. He keeps projecting it in their conversations, making her feel like she’s not enough, like he’s still waiting for her to sacrifice herself for him.

He doesn’t. He’ll be okay with time, he’s sure.

It’s after another strained conversation with Maria, which went to shit when she asked him, understandably, why he doesn’t visit at all if he misses her so much, that he comes back to the training even more grumpy than normally. 

“Morning,” Harry greets him, when Eric joins him on the pitch. Harry’s a good, down-to-earth lad. Eric’s early that day, ready to put all his negative energy into tackles. He just nods. “How’s your break?”

_Pointless, tiring, boring. I couldn’t focus on my book, lost every FIFA match I tried playing, and fought with my girlfriend again._

“’s okay. How’re the dogs?” he steers the conversation into the safe area. They’re always able to chat about their dogs, both of them slightly crazy about their pupils. It’s an easy conversation to be had, one that manages to ease Eric’s irritation. 

“Brady didn’t like our new sofa and decided to leave his marks all around it. He’s lucky Kate loves him more than me...”

They chat and ran additional laps and it’s all good for a while, at least until other lads arrive. 

The sight of approaching group of Spurs players hits him with a pang of jealousy, because they are positively glowing, joking around happily in a way that should be banned at this time in the morning. It should be illegal to be this happy on a cold, cloudy day, Eric thinks, and immediately feels even worse for being a dick, for having such nasty thoughts. 

He’ll just stick with the familiar calm faces today, he guesses.

But then, Dele Alli’s behaviour catches his attention. He’s one of the new players, standing in the centre of the commotion, smiling so brightly his face looks like it could break. Eric’d met him some time at the beginning of the preseason and lost him from his sight after, has not given him any thoughts whatsoever, but now that he sees him, he realises why he unconsciously stayed out of his way. The boy is cheerful, disgustingly so, making him seem invincible. Eric turns his eyes away from him because he can stand it; Alli is a definition of a perfect English player, probably groomed to fit into their league, and with his self-confidence radiating out of him, he’s the life of the party. He’s exactly the kind of a person Eric both envies, though unwillingly, and almost loathes. 

He makes an immediate decision to just stay out of his way. He doesn’t need a reminder of how much he’s not able to settle into his new routine.

For some reason, though, Alli won’t let him forget. It’s like he has his own personal vendetta against Eric – and no, Eric doesn’t think that’s the case, he knows he’s not the centre of the universe, but…

“That’s the third time today, Eric!” Winks yells from the opposite of the pitch, and only then Eric realises he was nutmegged. Again. “Not your day, huh?”

Eric flicks him off. 

“Just decided I’ll let you kids play,” he explains, no emotions in his voice, but his body trembling with irritation. He looks around and sees Dele staring at him intently, clearly waiting for his reaction. Eric rolls his eyes and turns away. He won’t let himself get provoked. 

“Behaving and speaking like a real old man these days, Dier,” Winks observes. 

He certainly feels like it, when he sees the way other boys are able to enjoy the training even in such poor weather. 

 

* * *

 

“...and then, she says: I know you from somewhere. Weren’t you in Big Brother?” Ben Davies finishes telling his story of the night he spent in a club with his mates in the summer.

Their table erupts into loud laugh. Eric smiles brightly too, enjoying the simplicity of having a lunch with lads. At times like this, it’s easy to catch a breath, to forget. To be just another lad barely in his twenties, thinking about girls, parties, and games.

“Oh, man, that’s just perfect. What did you say?” Jan asks.

“That I just have one of those faces, a generic one, and that many people mistake me for someone else-”

“Should’ve used that.” Danny Rose interrupts.

“And have paps all over me later. Thanks, but no, thanks,” Ben finishes. “Anyway. I’m too busy for a bird now.”

“Oh yeah, busy doing what? Pretending you know how to play football?”

Whistles follow.

“Brutal, man. Brutal.” Toby comments.

Eric observes the scene with a fondness. The conversation moves to their respective kids and wives and girlfriends, and Eric stops listening, instead looking around the canteen. It’s full of people, both players and stuff, and it’s warm and loud, inviting. Then his eyes fall on the group sitting around the table next to theirs. It’s Alli, both Harrys, Kyle, Kieran, Son and Kevin there, and it seems that they’re enjoying themselves, their laughs even louder then Eric’s table’s. It’s Alli in the centre again, looking even more joyful than Son (and isn’t that something).

Eric’s not sure he’s ever seen him without smile on. It’s weird. It’s unnerving. No one is always happy. Most of the time, Eric stays out of his way and forgets about him, despite Dele’s effort to prove something to him with all the nutmegs, but then he notices him again, in the background, filling up more room than he should, his personality seemingly a bit too bright, too perfect. It winds Eric up, not understanding what’s his deal.

There’s something about that man, some missing part, a secret to be unfold. Eric’s a good observer, and for now, he didn’t notice anything out of ordinary, but...

“Dier?” Mousa’s words interrupt his thought.

“Huh?”

“Games tonight?”

Eric considers it for a second, as if he could have a reason to say no, and feels a relief wash him at the thought of having something to do with his otherwise dull evening.

“If you insist.”

 

* * *

 

When the new season finally commences, Eric feels ready for it as he’s never been ready before. He can’t wait to get back into the unforgiving rhythm of _footballfootballfootball_. That’s the answer to his problems, it has to be, the way to put all his negative emotions into something meaningful. The way to find himself again.

They play Manchester United first, and it’s never easy to face such big club, but Eric is prepared. Still, he’s not delusional, so when it doesn’t go the way he hoped it would, he’s okay. When it comes to football, he’s able to keep his feet on the ground – he doesn’t get high on a win, he doesn’t crush when they lose. He just pushes forward. 

Football seems like a complicated game, but it’s everything that surrounds it that gets complicated, the game itself is easy and honest. It bares people, reveals the truth about them. 

Eric observes the locker room. It’s quiet, the defeat almost tangible, their spirit a bit deemed. While he's seen most of his colleagues in such condition before, there’s one that stands out, looking completely out of the place.

Eric should probably feel some vicious satisfaction at the sight of Dele Alli, mum and tired, clearly lost in his unkind thoughts for the first time since he met him, but he only fills ashamed. It’s the contrast that does it, Eric reckons, the contrast between typical Dele’s cheerfulness and this... this raw defeat painting his face. It’s obvious that the boy (boy; so lost and young looking) blames himself, God knows for what. 

It doesn’t sit well with Eric, taking over his thoughts. And although now he can say he saw this different side of Dele he’s always wanted to dig out and knows that he’s a real person, he feels like a dick for wanting to wash the smile off his face in the first place.

He just can’t get over it.

“You did well,” he tells Dele, when they’re in the bus, before he can stop himself. It’s the right thing to do, he reasons with himself, they’re teammates after all, they need to have each other back, and Alli’s really good with the ball, a true asset on the pitch, even if off of it, he’s mostly a little bitch. In truth, he just can’t stand seeing Dele like this. It doesn’t suit him. “Congrats on your debut.”

Dele looks up at him, looking all of fifteen years old, clearly shocked. If Eric thought him smiling looked weird, it’s nothing compared to how strange it is to see that boy so crushed. 

“Thanks,” he mumbles, unsure. 

There’s not much more Eric can do to make up for his previous bad intentions, so he turns around and directs his stare at the streets outside the windows, but still cannot get rid of the disappointment he feels when he thinks his stupid wish to get rid of that smile on Dele’s face. Now that he’s seen that happen, he’s sure he doesn’t want to see it ever again.

He’s not ready to admit it, but he might’ve misjudged that boy. 

He continues to be a riddle, the one able to take Eric’s mind off his own problems, and now he’s even more intrigued and determined to solve it. 

 

* * *

 

Football really is the way to live, Eric decides weeks later, when he realises how the time flies when you focus purely on it. He doesn’t have the time or energy to think either about his existential crisis, or about the very real relationship troubles, because they keep playing, keep fighting, keep living.

In the meantime, his siblings visit him, first Eddie at the end of August, and then Daisy, and that’s enough to fill the emptiness which rarely (but consistently, during the nights, and when he’s tired, and when he’s alone) resurfaces.

“Will you finally fix things with Maria? I hate listening to her moaning about my little bro.” Daisy’s never one to beat around the bush. She’s in London for two days, just in time to see his game with Manchester City. 

He’s excited to finally have someone in the stands. Maybe he would’ve had someone there more often, if he talked with Maria like a normal person and invited her over, but...

“I can’t.” He states simply, looking at his dogs running around trees in the park then went to for a walk. 

“Why the hell not?”

“Just can’t.”

“Eric.” She gives him a look. “Tell me what’s the problem.” The difference between her and Steph is that there’s no judgement behind her words, no condescending tone at all. 

He might as well tell her. He lets out a long sigh and winces. 

“She’s a reminder.”

Daisy softens, but she’s still her, so she asks: “Will you stop talking in riddles? Just spit it out.”

He’s okay at the moment, he thinks, with her and his dogs, but she won’t let him off the hook, and he’s in fact glad to finally have someone to talk to. He fights through his urge to swallow his feelings once again and finally voices what’s inside him. He starts speaking in a whisper, still observing his dogs, not wanting to see his sister’s reaction.

“It doesn’t feel right, being here. You would think after so long, I would...” He laughs, bitterly. “But I’m still homesick.”

Daisy’s all bark no bite, and now that she knows, she slips into her role of a _friend_ effortlessly.

“So we deal with that. What do you miss the most?” she asks matter-of-factly.

He wishes he knew. He shrugs.

“No idea. Something. I can’t make myself go to Lisbon, because there’s a possibility that I won’t find a home there either, and the thing with Maria went to shit when I tried to convince her to come here, so now I can’t make myself face her. Short phone calls with guys are just on a side of painful. And football’s okay, it really is, lads are alright, I got used to the house. Just.” He takes another deep breath before voicing what’s been bothering him this whole time. “Doesn’t feel like home.”

She listens carefully before she opens her mouth to comment.

“Okay, so here’s my advice. You might think it’s shit, and that you didn’t need me to tell you that, but... Give it some more time.” He rolls his eyes at her. “No, listen. It’s just September. There’s much more to come, both at work and in life. Don’t push yourself to fit in, don’t feel bad for needing the time to adjust.”

He knows all of that, but he’s not mad at Daisy for saying this. He would say the same in her place. Too bad it’s not enough to truly help him.

“Talk to me. To us. We’ll listen. And I’m always on your side, you know that?”

“You shouldn’t in this case. I’m the arsehole here.”

“You are, but to work things out with Maria, you need to work through your own issues first. It will all fall into right places later. I have to say I don’t get it though. Why would you ask her to move in with you, when you knew she-“ She shakes her head. “No, don’t answer. Just think about it, and try to understand your behaviour, because it’s all happening for a reason.”

It’s not like she gave him any answer, but after the initial shame of talking about his emotions, he feels a bit lighter now when he got it off his chest. Then Daisy delivers the final blow.

“We’re all looking for something, you know. You’re not the only one lost.”

Eric breath catches. 

He’s not one to romanticize life, to use big words and complicated metaphors. But maybe that’s what’s wrong with him. He’s lost, somewhere in-between.

Daisy shakes her head, and takes her eyes off the dogs, to smile at him delicately.

“And in the meantime, find some hobby, maybe?”

Eric hits her lightly on her arm. “Steph said the same. Don’t tell me you gossiped behind my back.”

“No, it’s just Dier women wisdom saving the day as always. We’re right. You need more in your life than just football.“

He’s not so sure, when two days later, he scores his first goal of the new season in a match against Manchester City and opens the scoresheet for their 4:1 win. For the first time in a while, he lets himself get drunk on the adrenaline, just to fill all the empty holes he carries around these days. 

That evening, everything’s alright, and nothing disturbs him – not even the sight of thrilled Dele. 

 

* * *

 

The thing with being an older brother – one that actually cares – is that after a while, you just know when something is wrong, you can feel it in the air. You get that six sense which lets you recognize the telltale signs. It’s a short way from knowing that there’s something wrong with your siblings, to immediately noticing when other people are struggling.

After the Arsenal match, Eric stays behind to talk to the kitman because he got a telling off for wearing wrong socks again, but fails to see how they matter when he performs well for the club in his own pair. It takes him a while to reach an agreement with Paul the kitman. When he finally walks out the door, and notices the scene happening in the car park, the world stops, and his vision zooms in on the person in front of him.

It’s Dele, looking absolutely crushed, and there’s not a single thought in Eric’s mind other than a need to help him. Because Dele doesn’t look like _that_ , ever. 

It’s just wrong, the tight sharpness of his muscles, the haunted look in his eyes, his hands in fists. It’s like he’s a frozen frame, caught in half-a-step. Fear raises in Eric at the thought of what could’ve happened.

He lets his instinct take over, the need to provide comfort stronger than any rational thought, and it doesn’t matter it’s Dele – or maybe it does matter, in a sense, because Eric feels even more protective of him, now that he knows there’re some sides of him he wasn’t aware of. 

“You need to leave,” he tells the women who tries to follow Dele after he run away back into the stadium. Eric stands tall, with his arms crossed, trying to show the women he’s not going to back out.

“I just wanna talk with my son!” she argues, and Eric feels a chill run on his back. There’s some dark history here, something serious. God, Dele.

“He doesn’t want to talk to you, so that’s it, I won’t let you,” he tells the women, leaving no place to discussion. He needs to get rid of her quickly, to go find Dele. He shouldn’t be alone, it’s a no-brainer.

“I have a right to speak to him! I-“

“No.” There’s no way in hell he’s going to let her anywhere near him.

She finally leaves, wasting far too much time he could spend more productively, for example looking for Dele. It’s a burning thought in his mind, one he didn’t expect, this need to make sure he’s okay, that he’s safe. There’s not much Eric can offer him, but still, he tries. It’s because when he looks at Dele, he sees his little siblings, every time they needed him, and it’s just an instinct, really, to try to hide him from the world, to offer him some relief. He hopes that in time of need, someone else would do that for them too. That's what he tells himself. On top of that, there's also the guilt which eats him alive when he recalls his previous behaviour. He was a proper arsehole and needs to find a way to atone for his stupid thoughts.

And above all that, it’s just Dele, the boy he already grown used to, the boy who should never, in the million years, look like that. 

It’s just not right, Eric thinks once again.

It’s only when they’re back at his, sitting together on a sofa, that he has the time to truly realise he doesn’t know anything about Dele at all. For some reason, he wants to know all of it, even though he tries to give Dele space to make the decision on his own. 

It’s two in the morning when they come back to the topic again, Dele already calm and more reserved, but clearly still processing what has happened.

“Wanna go upstairs to bed? I’ve got a guest room,” Eric offers, interrupting the silence filled only by distant sounds from the telly. 

Dele looks better now, comfier, in the deemed light of a night lamp, under one of Eric’s blankets. He shakes his head.

“Don’t wanna sleep,” he whispers unsurely. “Can we...?” He stops abruptly.

Eric encourages him to go on. “Yeah?”

“Can we stay here? Can you stay...? He’s playing nervously with the hem of his shirt.

“Sure, Delboy.” The term of endearment slips from Eric’s lips naturally, the sight of vulnerable boy in front of him bring out some undiscovered affection from deep within him. 

They sit in quietly for a while more, both pretending to watch whatever stupid soap opera they’re showing at this hour, and it’s not even awkward, but Dele suddenly opens his mouth and breaks the silence anyway. He starts from the beginning, from the story of his father leaving with another women, through first memories he has and the time he played on streets. With every sentence, his voice gets stronger and stronger. It’s like the dam has been broken, and he can’t stop sharing memories from his past. 

“...there was this time when our team was going to the competition, a day long trip, and I needed the permission slip signed, but in the morning, she was so drunk she couldn’t even hold a pen in her hand. I would’ve signed it myself, but I couldn’t leave my siblings-“ he stops talking, suddenly. He takes a breath and adds: “I have two sisters. I don’t know where they are.”

He talks about it like it’s something that doesn’t concern him, but Eric knows how it works. Convincing yourself you don’t care about something makes it easier to deal. 

“You know what’s the worst?” Dele whispers at the end of his monologue, in the quietness of the night. It’s like they’re in the different dimension, where time and place doesn’t exist. Late night conversations tend to feel like that. “I used to work so hard for her approval. I thought if I played better, if I cleaned the house after her parties, if I took care of- But it was never enough. And now I’m a professional footballer and she smelled money and…”

He looks so devastated. 

It’s a different person Eric sees now, and his heart aches for Dele, for all that he’s been through. It’s a miracle he’s managed to get where he is now, and that he still smiles so brightly... It’s like a world has shifted, and the reality Eric now sees is a different one to the one he woke up to in the morning.

Eric listens, the whole night, he listens and tries to be the friend Dele deserves.

From time to time, you have a conversation with someone that feels like a confession, like a foundation of something huge. You take part in that conversation, but it feels like you watch it from above at the same time. It’s a turning point. There’s an electricity in the air that night that tells Eric it’s a night like that. It’s a beginning; nothing’s going to be the same now.

Eric doesn’t think about anything else other then Dele. For that night, he’s the centre of the universe. 

In the morning, when Eric wakes up, his back killing him after few hours of sleep he caught on the sofa, and sees Dele’s relaxed face leaned back on the opposite armrest, he realises that he feels more like himself then he’s felt in weeks. Just like that.

“Come back for FIFA tomorrow?” he asks Dele when he’s leaving, trying not to sound too hopeful. The small smile he gets in an answer, after all this heavy talk during the night, is the best thing ever.

“Sure, Dier. Just be prepared to lose.” Dele says, not fully back to his happy self, but getting there.

“In your dreams.”

 

* * *

 

Eric doesn’t know what he expected. Maybe a scenario in which Dele changes, is this different version of himself all the time now, more tame, more cautious, maybe a bit ashamed of his weakness, awkward around Eric. Or maybe on the contrary, he thought nothing would change at all, Dele would continue to ignore him from afar, just like before, both of them forgetting about their connection.

He didn’t expect it would be him who would change.

Dele acts exactly the same as before. He’s back to being his cheerful self, but now, he’s like that right next to Eric. At first, he’s a bit self-conscious, and it’s barely noticeable, but now Eric knows where to look for signs. Then Dele sees Eric’s reaction – he can’t help it, he smiles at the boy now, he encourages him, invites him to share the space next to him – and he forgets about any reservation, glues himself to Eric’s side.

Or his back.

“Dier. Dier, Dier, Dier. What a beautiful day to train,” he says into Eric’s ear after he jumped on him to welcome him on the pitch. It’s a gray, rainy morning at the end of November. Figures. “Be my partner for the warm-up?”

He doesn’t give Eric a chance to answer, it’s kind of their routine now anyway, and instead runs towards the line to get a ball. 

So that’s how it is: Dele hasn’t changed, he’s exactly the same he was before, but his cheerfulness just doesn’t piss Eric off anymore. He tries hard to keep up his image, to react to Dele’s taunting with grumpiness, but it’s almost impossible – before he can stop himself, he’s smiling back at the boy. It’s the easiest thing to do. 

“So you’re good now?” Kyle asks, from where he stands by the goalpost.

“He’s not that bad,” Eric admits. 

“Duh. We all knew that, it was you who had some problem.”

Eric pretends to be offended.“I didn’t.”

Kyle gives him a look. “Whatever. It’s good to see you stopped killing the vibe.”

“I’ve never-“

“Oh you did. We even considered holding an intervention so you would stop freezing the guy out, but I see you finally took your head out of your ass. Good for you,” he states and walks away. 

Huh, Eric thinks. 

He doesn’t have time to reflect on it, because then said boy comes back with the ball and they start their warm-up. Dele’s delighted smiles, pointed at him, but lacking the edge he’s always seen in them before, make Eric unconsciously relax. It’s a nice day.

 

* * *

 

They train, and they play. They talk a lot, play FIFA a lot, eat out a lot. Dele’s constantly at his side now, taunting him, tugging at his clothes, asking him silly questions. He sits with Eric on the bus, he pushes him to get to know other boys more closely, he plans something for them to do on every free evening. 

He’s there when they win, a personification of triumph; he’s there when they lose, a bit more reserved, clearly in need of some comfort. Eric’s happy to provide it. 

It’s natural for him to focus on others. He _thrives_ on the feeling. 

Weeks go by, and Eric catches himself falling easily into this new life of his. It’s easier to _be_ , now. It’s easier to breathe without something weighing him down. Maybe he just needed a best friend, not just one of the lads, a true, honest friend, to help him find the balance again. Someone completely different than him, who would push him out of his comfort zone.

Eric lies in his bed, in the first week of December, considering how different he feels these days and thinking about the Christmas this year, which he plans to spend in London because of the tight match schedule. He’s not even complaining, still unsure about going to Portugal, still somehow unable to face what he’d left behind. It’ll be good staying in England, he guesses. He won’t be alone, that’s for sure.

His mobile vibrates at the new message arriving. Eric opens it quickly.

**Dele: prepare to die tmrw**

They’re making them play Mario Kart for the Youtube Christmas video. Eric rolls his eyes; he just _can’t wait_.

**Dele: dinner @ mine after diet?**

**Dele: dier***

**Dele: or I guess I just gotta call you diet now**

**Dele: I’m not making the rules**

Eric laughs fondly. What a silly man. He sends him his confirmation, and puts his mobile down, still smiling. He looks up at the ceiling and tries to find comfortable position, readjusting heavy bodies of his dogs next to him, waiting for sleep to come. There’s still something disrupting his peace though, a thought in the back of his head keeping him awake. Before he can chicken out, he takes the phone back, opens an old conversation, one that he haven’t used in a while, and starts writing. 

Eric: _Estou com saudades de você, nós podemos conversar? Ou darmos mais uma chance? Eu estou melhor comigo mesmo agora._

He sends the text to Maria quickly and hopes for the best. 

It’s time to fix what he’s broken. 

( _I miss you. I really do. Can we talk? Can you give me one more chance? I sorted myself out now, I swear._ )

 

* * *

 

On December 13th, they play Newcastle. Eric scores the first goal, and it seems like everything will work out, but then, in the second half, they lose two, and that’s it. They come back to locker room in foul mood, the excitement of scoring a goal already forgotten. Fortunately, they manage to come back stronger just five days later, in time for the last match before Christmas. They win two nil with Southampton, Dele being the scorer of one of the goals. 

Eric expects him to be exhilarated, especially because of their previous failure (Dele tends to care too much and needs to recover quickly, otherwise he loses his spirit and it’s a tough task to get him back on track), but for some reason, he’s quieter then normally. Eric waits until they’re in his car, on the way home, to ask what’s wrong.

They don’t spare time for unnecessary serious talks, but he can tell when it is, in fact, needed.

Dele is looking out of the window, lost in his thoughts.

When they stop waiting for the lights to change, Eric coughs lightly. “So. What’s up?”

Dele jumps in his seat and turns to him abruptly.

“Hm?”

“I asked what’s up,” Eric repeats, trying to sound caring, not too invasive.

“Oh. Nothing.” He’s dismissed.

“Sure, nothing, just cat got your tongue.” Eric rolls his eyes. “Look, I know Christmas is coming, and you probably-”

“What?”

Eric is stopped in his track. “What, what?”

“What does Christmas have to do with-“

“With...?”

“God, Diet. Okay. Here’s the thing.” Dele starts, harshly, but then he loses the edge in his voice. He stares at his nails. “It’s stupid.”

“It’s not if it bothers you.” Eric tells him matter-of-factly, and then just waits. Dele needs his space to open up.

Maybe his mother is trying to contact him again. Maybe he’s just down because of the Christmas being a family celebration. Maybe there’s something wrong at the club, maybe some fans said something…

“They asked me to do this interview.” That’s not what Eric expected to hear. 

“Okay…?”

Dele looks like it pains him to admit what’s wrong with that.

“I hate interviews.” He takes a deep breath and then finally spills. “I always manage to say the wrong thing, or give someone a wrong look, or I get too nervous and don’t say anything, and they just wait for it, for one mistake to just write me off, it’s-“

“Okay, stop right here. No one is out to get you. Well, maybe the Arsenal fans, but.” Eric shrugs. They don’t matter. “What kind of interview?”

“Teammates. You know, they ask who’s the worst at this or that, but I don’t want to-” He doesn’t finish, but Eric gets it. He doesn’t want to get on anyone’s bad side. Everybody likes him here, and won’t stop because of some stupid banter, but Dele’s anxious because he is stupidly convinced he’ll fuck up at some point or another, and he doesn’t want to, especially not now, when he gets along with literally everyone, including Eric.

Oh, Dele.

It’s an irrational fear, but Eric doesn’t think he can convince Dele of that. 

“Just say it’s me.” He proposes the simplest solution.

“What?” Dele gives him incredulous look.

“I don’t mind. Knock yourself out.”

“I can’t say your name every time they ask!” 

“You can.” Eric states simply. “Who says you can’t? Not to every question, just when you need an out.”

Dele stares at him in disbelief. “That’s… Okay, that’s surprisingly helpful. You just love being slagged off by me, admit it!” He tries to cover it with a deflection, but Eric can tell he’s glad for being given a solution. 

“That’s going to be our secret inside joke. Aww, we’re true bffs now!” Eric wipes imaginary tear from the corner of his eye.

He focuses back on the road. He really doesn’t mind.

“I won’t stop nutmegging you anyway, forget about it.”

Weeks later, when Eric watches the interview, he can't stop smiling every time he hears his name falling from Dele's lips.

 

* * *

 

It’s a day before Christmas when Eric finally gathers enough courage to open his Skype and call the person he should’ve called weeks ago. He’s embarrassed and a bit unsure, but ready to work through their differences, to ask for forgiveness and actually earn it.

They talk about simple things; about his season and interesting places in London he’s visited with Dele, about the dogs. She tells him about her studies, professors, exams she had just before the break. Portuguese words fall effortlessly from Eric’s mouth, not leaving a foul aftertaste, not making him reminisce what’s gone, but connecting him with his roots. 

Maria smiles at him from the screen, and Eric realises there’s no more awkwardness between them, no more hard feelings or misunderstandings. Maybe because it’s easier for Eric to live his own life again, no more longing tiring his heart. He looks at her and realises it’s simple again to just talk to her, not to ask her for more than she can give. It’s just them.

“Você parece estar mais feliz,” she notices, and he can tell she’s glad. She’s one of the kindest souls he’s ever met.

“Sim, estou,” he admits. “Me desculpa por todos esses meses, eu estava num lugar muito ruim, eu estava ruim.”

“Sim, você estava,” she agrees. “Mas eu estou feliz que você está de volta.” 

( _"You seem happier."_

_"I am. I’m so sorry for these past months. I was awful."_

_"You were. But it’s so good to have you back."_ )

It is.

 

* * *

 

The new year starts intensely, with a match after match, and they only lose once, to Leicester City, and then go on a streak of six consecutive wins. What Eric remembers from that time later is just pure, pure happiness. Laughing till his stomach hurts. Fighting with everything he has and seeing the results. It’s the best he’s felt in a long while. 

Dele is there every step of the way. He scores three goals in January and glows even more than before, seemingly feeling better and better in his own skin and in Spurs kit. 

He’s presence is loud and bright. His youthful energy and happiness lights up even the most gloomy days. They both produce infinite number of stupid videos, because Dele tends to do that, record every second of their time together; there’s evidence of Eric sleeping in the car, of Eric dancing in the locker room, of their afternoon out. If it was anyone else pushing their camera in Eric’s face, he would flick them off. But it’s Dele, and Eric’s just unable to tell him to stop.

Their friendship grows and flourishes filling the void in Eric’s soul.

In March, they’re together at the international break. Eric scores the winner at the Olympic Stadium in Germany, and it’s a cherry on the top of these perfect months. All he ever wanted was to play for England, to score for England, and to put into it his whole heart. 

The pride in Dele’s eyes when he hugs him and puts his hand on his neck and smiles, smiles, smiles during the interview afterwards, even though he normally hates talking to the press, makes it even better.

 

 

Unfortunately, footballer's life isn’t perfect, there are sides of it that just sucks. It’s not even all about the game; it about the things that come with it. Eric’s painfully aware of it.

With every goal scored and every match won, he watches Dele’s confidence grows, but the boy’s still young, not fully prepared for the ugly side of football. In that aspect, Eric feels like an old guy, able to just distance himself from the public. Dele’s still too emotional for it, too fierce.

There are rumours following him everywhere. Articles about his past constantly reappear; they still make him lose his cool (there’s still a dent in a wall of Eric’s living room where Dele’s MotM prize hit it on full speed, after he read another compilation of lies posted as a serious news about his family). There really are people out to get him, for this or that, commenting on his mistakes and waiting for him to make one wrong move.

It’s not easy for Eric, admitting that he’s not able to protect his from everything, when there’s a part of brain always focused on that. He can still try.

It’s during the Liverpool game, just at the beginning of April, when shit hits the fan. Once again, Eric’s surprised to discover that it’s him who snaps, not Dele. He sees the commotion and Dele in the centre of it, and just jumps in front of him, ready to kill whoever thought they could mess with Dele. It’s just a few second of strained air between him and Emre Can, but it leaves him unsettled for a long time after.

“Alright, mate?” Harry Kane asks, when they’re all dressing back into their street clothes.

He’s not. He doesn’t understand it, but he really, truly isn’t okay. Adrenaline still buzzes in him, making him ready to jump on anybody who bothers him too much. He wants to hit someone, kick the wall, destroy something, scream... He just ignores Harry, focusing solely on putting on his socks. It’s not an easy task when his hands are trembling from all the nerves.

He sees Dele in the corner of his eye, whispering something to Kane. He sits down next to Eric later, and waits for him to finish dressing. Other lads leave the room in the meantime. When Eric makes a fifth failed attempt at zipping his jacket, Dele can’t take it anymore.

“For fuck’s sake,” he breaths out and swaps at Eric’s hands, to fix the zipper himself. It’s done in seconds. Then, he lifts up his eyes and stares at his face intently, forcing Eric to look him in the eyes. The tension in the air makes it even harder to breathe.

“Listen. I know you think I need your protection. I appreciate that, I really do, and you’re my best mate, but you need to stop. I’m not some kid needing help every step of the way. Let it go. I’m okay.”

“But...”

“I’m okay! Snap out of it. I don’t know why you care so much.” That’s a question, indeed. But Dele’s his best friend, isn’t that enough explanation? “The only good thing that came out of it are memes.”

“The hell?” That manages to bring him out of his thought spiral.

Dele shows him the meme. It’s embarrassing, fucking brutal, but once Dele starts cackling, he just can’t stop, and Eric joins him after a few seconds of his confusion. The meme makes him look stupid, but it’s enough to make him ease this irritation filling his body. 

“Chill, man. I think you need to go visit your girl, you’re so tense lately.” Dele jokes, just a bit of edge behind it. Eric gets it.

Something heavy drops in his stomach. Maybe he does need to visit Maria already. His need of physical contact, the _burning_ of his skin, starts getting unbearable.

 

* * *

 

“Hi, bro. A little bird told me you’re as good as new!” Daisy welcomes him when they finally find the common free evening they have and they manage to Skype, after weeks of silence.

“Stop gossiping about me.”

“Well, you shouldn’t have chosen my best friend for a girlfriend then. Anyway. I’m glad you’re feeling better.” Daisy looks at him closely. “You do, right?”

“I do.” It’s the truth. He’s okay here now. He can see himself here in a year, two, five.

“I knew it! Just a bit of time you needed. And a friend I guess. You’re close with Alli, right?”

“Dele. Yeah, he’s a nice lad.”

“Younger, right?”

“A kid, basically.” Oh, he would kill him if he heard that one.

“How is it that you always make friends with those who need your help?”

“Not true. He doesn’t need anything from me.” He thinks about Dele’s rage at being coddled. “...it was me who needed him, I guess.” He adds, surprised at his own honesty.

Daisy tries to hide her shock.

“After what I saw in the Liverpool match, I wouldn’t... but okay. Good for you, then. Wow.” She shakes her head. “Anyway. When are you coming to visit? You haven’t been here in so long. Maria won’t say so, but she would kill to see you, now that you’re back to normal.”

They talk regularly, they text. They really are okay, even if it’s mostly platonic, now that they don’t see each other at all. Eric hasn’t felt the need to visit her, but now that both Dele and Daisy mentioned it...

“I have a few spare days next week. I’ll come by.” 

Daisy beams at him.

So he goes, willingly, happy to be able to come back for a while, happy to reconnect with his dear, dear Maria. 

When he sees her, for the first time in months, he sweeps her into his arms and lets himself get consumed with passion, not caring about the audience. He puts all his energy and restlessness into their kisses, trying to get rid of it all, to finally find a way to let it out. If she’s surprised, she doesn’t show it. 

He barely lets her out of his arms in the following days, relishing the feeling of having someone there. They reconnect with the fire behind it that wasn’t there in a really long time, because Eric’s buzzing with the need to let off the steam. He effortlessly slips back into his place next to her, happy to live a few stolen days back where it all began. It puts his mind at ease and gets rid of the edge he’s been on for a last few days. It’s almost enough. He sees his old friends, all a bit different, a bit less familiar. Maybe it’s them who changed, or maybe it’s Eric, he has yet to decide.

But this time, leaving Portugal behind and going back to London isn’t that hard. He has a place and people to come back to. 

 

* * *

 

They’re already halfway into April, riding a wave of success and excitement, hopeful that maybe this is actually their season, maybe... It’s all just wishful thinking, but it feels justified. 

In the short breaks they have between trainings, Eric plans his revenge. He’s determined to make Dele pay for the March interview at which he ambushed him. He won’t admit that he was actually proud to see him so comfortable in front of the camera and instead hides behind his grumpiness and banter, swears to get back at him. It takes him days to plan it all out.

He’s not exactly an expert in these things, but he can surely make Dele lose his cool in front of the camera.

He asks him questions no one else is allowed to ask, hoping to get some kind of reaction from him, not just his typical pose he hides behind. He knows Dele can tell it’s all just a silly fun, that he doesn’t try to pry into his business too much.

But it backfires badly, because Dele’s honest, too honest, and once again, it’s Eric who loses his cool. He should get used to it. Maybe he already have.

“Highlight of my year? Meeting you,” Dele answers sincerely.

It leaves Eric speechless. 

 

* * *

 

“If you could teleport anywhere in the world, where would you go?” Dele asks.

There’s no more longing tiring his heart, no more restlessness, no more contradictions. It did all fall into right places.

 _Right here_ , Eric realises. _I’d stay right here._

**Author's Note:**

> Goooood, I hope you can tell where I was going with all this.
> 
> A big shout-out to Thais (@el-tangoderoxanne.tumblr.com) for the help with Portuguese. You're a life saver. 
> 
> Eric's a bastard who didn't want to feel and think what I though he would. So here we are, with THIS. I couldn't look at this anymore, so I just went ahead and posted the story, but it took me weeks to come up with it, and I've gone through seven stages of grief already, so please, please let me know what you think.
> 
> I would love to hear what you liked, what you didn't like. I want to improve; tell me everything! Please. I can't tell you much your feedback means to me.
> 
> A big thank you and a hug to everyone who flooded me with support in the meantime, you're the best and you're all godmothers of this story.  
> References (more to follow):
> 
>   * [Dreams](https://www.theplayerstribune.com/en-us/articles/eric-dier-england-dreams) \- an article by Eric Dier for The Players' Tribune
>   * "Some people forget I'm essentially a foreign player" ~ Eric, in [The Guardian interview ](https://www.theguardian.com/football/2015/oct/23/tottenham-eric-dier-interview)
>   * "He [Eric Dier] was quite new to the club. Don’t know, maybe he just felt like he needed to look after me. And he did." ~ Dele, [here](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=eq5P_5jI808&feature=youtu.be&t=9m1s)
> As always, here's where you can find me: [carmenonmonday.tumblr.com](http://www.carmenonmonday.tumblr.com) Come by to shout at me, I love it.



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